It was the summer before final exams, and Chennai was buzzing with its usual mix of heat, dust, and life. I was 20 then, a college student with just enough freedom to enjoy the world in fragments, between lectures, cricket matches, and long walks to my friend Arjun’s place – a few blocks away from mine.

We had a routine. Street cricket until we were soaked in sweat, then headed to his house to clean up and chill. That was where I first noticed her – Meena Aunty, Arjun’s live-in maid. She was in her late 30s, unmarried, and always around. She didn’t say much, but her presence was impossible to ignore. Thick in all the right places, she had this quiet confidence, this unspoken ease in how she moved around the house. Every guy noticed her. None said it out loud.